Old Anthony Rockwall， retired manufacturer andproprietor of Rockwall’s Eureka Soap， looked out the librarywindow of his Fifth Avenue mansion and grinned. Hisneighbour to the right—the aristocratic clubman， G. VanSchuylight Suffolk-Jones—came out to his waiting motor-car，wrinkling a contumelious nostril， as usual， at the Italianrenaissance sculpture of the soap palace’s front elevation.
“Stuck-up old statuette of nothing doing！” commentedthe ex-Soap King. “The Eden Musee’ll get that old frozenNesselrode yet if he don’t watch out. I’ll have this housepainted red， white， and blue next summer and see if that’llmake his Dutch nose turn up any higher.”
And then Anthony Rockwall， who never cared for bells，went to the door of his library and shouted “Mike！” in thesame voice that had once chipped off pieces of the welkinon the Kansas prairies.
“Tell my son，” said Anthony to the answering menial， “tocome in here before he leaves the house.”
When young Rockwall entered the library the old manlaid aside his newspaper， looked at him with a kindlygrimness on his big， smooth， ruddy countenance， rumpledhis mop of white hair with one hand and rattled the keysin his pocket with the other.
“Richard，” said Anthony Rockwall， “what do you pay forthe soap that you use？”
Richard， only six months home from college， wasstartled a little. He had not yet taken the measure of thissire of his， who was as full of unexpectednesses as a girl ather first party.
“Six dollars a dozen， I think， dad.”
“And your clothes？”
“I suppose about sixty dollars， as a rule.”
“You’re a gentleman，” said Anthony， decidedly. “I’veheard of these young bloods spending 24 a dozen forsoap， and going over the hundred mark for clothes. You’vegot as much money to waste as any of ’em， and yet youstick to what’s decent and moderate. Now I use the oldEureka—not only for sentiment， but it’s the purest soapmade. Whenever you pay more than 10 cents a cakefor soap you buy bad perfumes and labels. But 50 centsis doing very well for a young man in your generation，position and condition. As I said， you’re a gentleman.
They say it takes three generations to make one. They’reoff. Money’ll do it as slick as soap grease. It’s made youone. By hokey！ it’s almost made one of me. I’m nearly asimpolite and disagreeable and ill-mannered as these twoold Knickerbocker gents on each side of me that can’tsleep of nights because I bought in between ’em.”
“There are some things that money can’t accomplish，”
remarked young Rockwall， rather gloomily.
“Now， don’t say that，” said old Anthony， shocked. “I betmy money on money every time. I’ve been through theencyclopaedia down to Y looking for something you can’tbuy with it； and I expect to have to take up the appendixnext week. I’m for money against the field. Tell mesomething money won’t buy.”
“For one thing，” answered Richard， rankling a little， “itwon’t buy one into the exclusive circles of society.”
“Oho！ won’t it？” thundered the champion of the rootof evil. “You tell me where your exclusive circles wouldbe if the first Astor hadn’t had the money to pay for hissteerage passage over？”
Richard sighed.
“And that’s what I was coming to，” said the old man， lessboisterously. “That’s why I asked you to come in. There’ssomething going wrong with you， boy. I’ve been noticingit for two weeks. Out with it. I guess I could lay my handson eleven millions within twenty-four hours， besides thereal estate. If it’s your liver， there’s the Rambler down inthe bay， coaled， and ready to steam down to the Bahamasin two days.”
“Not a bad guess， dad； you haven’t missed it far.”
“Ah，” said Anthony， keenly； “what’s her name？”
Richard began to walk up and down the library floor.
There was enough comradeship and sympathy in thiscrude old father of his to draw his confidence.
“Why don’t you ask her？” demanded old Anthony.
“She’ll jump at you. You’ve got the money and the looks，and you’re a decent boy. Your hands are clean. You’ve gotno Eureka soap on ’em. You’ve been to college， but she’lloverlook that.”
“I haven’t had a chance，” said Richard.
“Make one，” said Anthony. “Take her for a walk in thepark， or a straw ride， or walk home with her from church.
Chance！ Pshaw！”
“You don’t know the social mill， dad. She’s part of thestream that turns it. Every hour and minute of her time isarranged for days in advance. I must have that girl， dad， orthis town is a blackjack swamp forevermore. And I can’twrite it—I can’t do that.”
“Tut！” said the old man. “Do you mean to tell me thatwith all the money I’ve got you can’t get an hour or two ofa girl’s time for yourself？”
“I’ve put it off too late. She’s going to sail for Europeat noon day after to-morrow for a two years’ stay. I’m tosee her alone to-morrow evening for a few minutes. She’sat Larchmont now at her aunt’s. I can’t go there. ButI’m allowed to meet her with a cab at the Grand CentralStation to-morrow evening at the 8.30 train. We drivedown Broadway to Wallack’s at a gallop， where her motherand a box party will be waiting for us in the lobby. Do youthink she would listen to a declaration from me duringthat six or eight minutes under those circumstances？ No.
And what chance would I have in the theatre or afterward？
None. No， dad， this is one tangle that your money can’tunravel. We can’t buy one minute of time with cash； if wecould， rich people would live longer. There’s no hope ofgetting a talk with Miss Lantry before she sails.”
“All right， Richard， my boy，” said old Anthony， cheerfully.
“You may run along down to your club now. I’m glad itain’t your liver. But don’t forget to burn a few punk sticksin the joss house to the great god Mazuma from time totime. You say money won’t buy time？ Well， of course， youcan’t order eternity wrapped up and delivered at yourresidence for a price， but I’ve seen Father Time get prettybad stone bruises on his heels when he walked through thegold diggings.”